In Inches
by ephemereal
Summary: A collection of drabbles for rent100.
1. Beginnings

_Author's Note: This is a collection of drabbles written for livejournal's rent100. I decided that people will probably kill me if I post 100 separate ones on here, so I'll be doing them as chapters of this one fic instead. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and Rent is not mine._

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**001. Beginnings**

Warm tobacco and old leather. A husky voice that seemed to have something to say about pain and regret, even if she couldn't make out any of the words from the fire escape two floors down.

Mimi hated the building. It was old, the walls creaked at night, and she refused to look into the corners of the stairwell for fear of what might be living there. But it was affordable. And it was a roof over her head. And there was no one crying, or yelling, or leaving bruises on her arms.

And sometimes, if she listened extra hard, a voice floating down from somewhere above to sing her to sleep with the bittersweet taste of love.

Mimi knew the first day she moved in that she hated the building.

She knew by the end of that first night that she was in love with the boy upstairs.


	2. Middles

**002. Middles**

Once, just after New Year's, it got so cold it seemed as though the entire building might turn into one giant icicle and shatter into a million shards. Broken, like the lives of the people inside.

Mimi sat on the couch huddled under every blanket they could put their hands on, and watched Roger make a fire in the trashcan with a stack of posters left over from Maureen's protest. He had already lit a multitude of candles, though the power was on and they did little to help the temperature. Between the smell of smoke and the snow-melt water dripping off the tarp that was currently covering several roof leaks, the place felt vaguely like a campground.

"Rog, you're gonna make it burn too high again," said Mark, who was attempting to use his mother's gift hot-plate to make tea. "I don't want to end up tossing our heat out the window this time."

"I know how to make a fucking fire," grumbled Roger, but he went over to the couch and crawled under the blankets beside Mimi.

"No funny stuff," joked Mark, giving up on the tea. "I want your hands where I can see them." He shoved his own under his arms, shivering a little. As if to prove just how cold it had gotten, a few pieces of snow came sliding off the edge of the tarp and landed on the table. They sat for nearly a minute before beginning to melt.

"Hey Mark, get over here," said Mimi, gesturing to the blankets.

"No way," said Roger, and Mimi elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"What kind of friend are you?" She looked back and forth between the two of them, silently willing them not to fight. She always ended up in the middle of fights, somehow. But she couldn't let Mark stand there and freeze, and she knew he'd never ask unless someone gave him an opening first. Because that was Mark. The one who was always on the outside, until someone came along and pulled him in.

"You know, body heat is the best way to get warm," said Mark. And he sat beside Mimi, because Roger looked as though _he_ might burst into flame if the filmmaker came anywhere near his blankets. "Don't worry, Rog, I'm not gonna steal your girl. Just a little of your heat."

"This is your fault, you know," whispered Roger, making Mimi shiver a little. She knew he was teasing, but then again he was also right. More snow came flittering down off the tarp; it fell straight into the trashcan and went up in steam with a little _hiss. _

"Yeah, so?" She stuck her tongue out at him, and laughed when he rolled his eyes. Mark laughed too, and suddenly it did seem just a little bit warmer. "Maybe I like it."

"What?" asked Mark.

"Being the one in the middle." And it was true, she realized, as much as she'd hated the thought a moment before. Not always, of course, but when it came right down to it, she couldn't really imagine being anywhere else. Because sometimes inside people and outside people needed someone to pull them together. Angel had done if before, and done it with joy. Because after all, it was warmest in the middle.


	3. Endings

** Ends  
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She told everyone it was Angel that made her turn around.

And that was true, at least partially. It was Angel's smile, and Angel's charm, and Angel's warm laugh in a place that turned Mimi's skin cold as stone and sent her heart still-pounding into her throat. It was the connection she felt even after everything else had already faded.

It was Angel's wink, and her playful "You don't belong here yet! Turn around, girlfriend."

But it was also Roger's voice, husky with tears she'd never seen before, singing from miles and miles away. It was his large hands on her stinging cheek, and the feel of his lips against her neck. It was the feeling of him sobbing, too silently for anyone to hear, against her shoulder that finally made her want to go back.

Why she never told anyone that, she wasn't exactly sure. Because she couldn't admit to Roger that she hadn't quite wanted to forgive him until that moment. Because she knew the guilt would destroy him if he thought she'd really heard the sound of his voice that night. Because it was the end of denying reality, and the beginning of the pain that came with facing truth.

Because it was the end of the beginning of their time together, and of the middle too.


	4. Yellow

** Yellow **

She'd never look at it the same way again. That was just the way Mimi was with memories. Smells were the worst; once she'd actually had to switch shampoos because the scent reminded her too much of an ex. Sometimes touch did it too. The feel of rough sheets against her cheek. The first snowflakes of the season stinging her nose and forehead. Occasionally, it was taste. The salt of tears. The pasty sweetness of lipstick against her teeth.

It was hardly ever color. At least, it wasn't until later.

Afterward, she couldn't look at street signs the same way. Or flowers. Or even the butter, after Roger had left it sitting on the counter too long and it had started to melt.

She knew somehow at the back of her mind why, every time she saw it, her stomach did a little flip-flop.

It was because, in her mind, it was the color of rust on the bathroom floor when the pain in her stomach drove her to her knees. It was the discoloration of her father's teeth as he leered at her, his sour-beer breath dizzying. It was the stains on the sheets when he was finished at night.

Later, it was the color of a few drops of escape in a syringe. Of the concealer stick she dabbed under her eyes to hide the dark circles. Of the faded bruises on the insides of her arms.

Afterward, it was the plastic of a pill bottle. The blankets on Roger's cot in the loft. The flame of a candle lit for a lost friend.


End file.
